


Whumptober 2020 22 Drugged

by frankie_mcstein



Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Category: Magnum P.I. (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Not a death fic, Whumptober 2020, hospital stays, injuries, poor Magnum, protective Magnum, worried Higgins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_mcstein/pseuds/frankie_mcstein
Summary: Whumptober 2020 prompt 22- DruggedHe kept rubbing at his hand, confused by the stinging. Higgins was dead. No, he was in solitary. No, he needed to save Rick and TC. And his hand just kept stinging.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947172
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	Whumptober 2020 22 Drugged

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly emotional whump again. This year is just forcing me do emotions. Ew, emotions.

Magnum wasn't too sure what was going on. He'd woken up feeling oddly tired, stumbled on his way to the shower, dropped his coffee cup, then dropped his cell. It wasn't normal for him to be so clumsy, but his hands felt strange, like they were only partly connected to his body.

_ 'Beach,' _ he decided, heading for the door. Fresh air was what he needed. But as his foot hit the ground, the sky darkened with an abruptness that left him blinking and squinting. The rain came down with such heaviness he felt bruised where it hit before he ducked back into the doorway.

"What the…?" He stared, blinking in confusion, rubbing absently at the back of his hand where a painful lump was forming. A crack made him jump, his heart racing, and a bolt of lightning tore through the black sky. 

"Higgy?" He felt his heart squeeze as he took an involuntary step forward, straining to see through the torrent.

The figure that was slumped on the ground looked like Higgins. He recognized the clothes as the ones she had been wearing the previous day. The blonde hair was plastered to her head by the rain. 

He ran, not caring about the pinpricks of pain as the rain pelted down on him now. He moved as fast as he could as the saturated ground tried to suck at his bare feet, the usually lush lawns turning into a quagmire. She didn't react to him yelling her name. Even as he dropped to his knees and pulled her over onto her back, still calling her name, she didn't even sigh.

"C'mon, Juliet, talk to me," he begged, but he could see it was no use; her usually shining brown eyes were dull, leached of color, dead.

He still reached out to press his fingers to her neck. Still shook her shoulder. Still begged her to wake up. But she didn't. And Magnum didn't know what to do.

His first thought was to tear the island apart to find whoever had taken her away from him. But he couldn't think how to start. He couldn't figure out what was going on, why he felt so bad, why this storm had suddenly sprung up out of nowhere into the perfect day, why Juliet was suddenly gone. 

His head was starting to spin, the pain in his hand was suddenly tugging on his every nerve and quickly becoming all he could think about, and he felt so tired. So painfully, soul-destroyingly tired. He let his body fall to the freezing ground, his hand still on Higgins' shoulder, and his eyes closed without him even knowing.

…

Magnum yawned as he woke up, stretching luxuriously, reveling in the feeling of peace that was surrounding him. The annoying ache in the back of his hand sent a prickle of annoyance through him, spoiling the serenity of the moment. He frowned and rubbed his hand, wondering about the lump that was there.

A high pitched noise ripped away the calm feeling he was sinking into, making his heart race and his skin start to sweat. He ignored the dizziness and forced himself up, looking around to find the bedroom he'd thought he was in was a dream. It vanished as he looked around, replaced by sand and dirt. Walls so close he could touch them without stretching.

Solitary. 

The word echoed through his mind, clanging like a bell, and he groaned at it. He'd dreamed he was back home in Detroit at times, when they had left him in solitary too long for his mind to cope properly. But that dream hadn't been his bedroom. It was huge, bright, and warm. Even the bed hadn't been his. What the heck? Had he gone so completely crazy that he'd imagined an upgraded bedroom for himself?

He reached out, looking at the back of his hand, oddly free of dirt or blood, trying to see the bruise that was starting to throb. But his skin was totally clear. Probably the only part of his body that wasn't bloodied or bruised somehow. So why did it hurt so much?

He pressed his hands firmly against the wall in front of him, trying to center himself, trying to pull himself together. He needed to shake the imagined bedroom, the feeling, so realistic, of the sheets on his skin, the sun dappling the walls. He needed to stay in the real world. He couldn't let this isolation get the better of him. 

They'd never left him longer than two weeks before. At least, he didn't think so. It was easy to lose track of time when he was alone in the tiny cell for such extended periods of time. He just needed to hold on. Just needed to keep his grip on his sanity for a little while longer. Then they would drag him back to the main holding area, back to his brothers. 

So why was it so hard to shake the sound of the ocean? He could even smell the salt. And there was something else, some memory of a storm and a dead body that was tugging at him. And the pain in the back of his hand was getting worse, burning and tingling, making it impossible to focus on getting his mind straight. And he was tired. So incredibly tired. Maybe, if he slept, he'd be able to figure out what was going on?

His eyes fell shut, his head dropped to his chest, and his stiff, abused body slumped.

…

Magnum shook his head a little, trying to shake off the heavy feeling of sleep. There were plenty of places where sleeping was good but on a surfboard wasn't one of them. He dropped his hand to the ocean, scooped up some water, and rubbed it on his face, blinking at the sting of the salt but feeling more awake. 

He looked over to Rick and T.C., wondering if either of them were starting to feel tired, only to find they were much farther away than they should have been. Whereas they'd been in the middle of a three way conversation just a few seconds ago, now he'd have to shout to get them to hear him.

_ 'Riptide,' _ his mind told him, although he was sure that was more of a threat to swimmers. And that the two former Marines should have noticed if they were caught in a current of some kind. But they seemed to be laughing still, hands still cutting into the water as they kept on paddling.

He wasn't quite the surfer Rick was, but he was sure they were going too far out. He tried to yell out to them to warn them, but he could hardly hear his own voice. So he put his head down and began to paddle frantically, hoping if he moved fast enough he would be able to get within shouting distance.

It took a worryingly short time for his chest to start burning at the exertion, and he lifted his head, hoping to see that he had cut at least half the space between them. Instead, he found the distance had grown, that he had to squint to see them. He tried to call again, this time managing a full yell. He could just make out Rick and T.C.'s arms, moving awkwardly as they tried to start heading back toward him.

He watched, panting, wondering what on earth had happened only to realize it was still getting harder to see them. They were still getting farther away. And he just didn't have the energy to chase after them. He tried. He tried to paddle, to keep them in view, to stop them from vanishing into the horizon. But he was so tired, so exhausted.

By the time they were little specks in his vision, he'd been forced to give up. As they disappeared altogether, he simply lay his head back on his board and let his eyes close over the tears that were building.

...

Magnum wasn't too sure what was going on when he opened his eyes. The room was bright, but it was a harsh sort of brightness that told him it wasn't the sun. The bed he was lying on wasn't exactly comfortable, but there was a strange lassitude hanging over him regardless. He felt almost like he was floating, only a dull ache in his side keeping him tethered.

He sighed a little as he tried to gather his thoughts, and a warmth spread over the hand that wasn't stinging.

"Hey again," came a quiet voice.

His mind immediately showed him the image of dead eyes, bloodied clothes, pale skin, but it instantly faded into a vague disturbed feeling. 

"Are you really awake this time?"

It was calming, smooth and soft, and even the feeling quickly faded away. 

"Ju…" He coughed, his throat burning from the strain and his side catching fire at the rough movement. A quiet 'shh' and a pinprick of cold on his lips quickly followed. He let the ice chip sit on his tongue, relishing the feeling of the cold water on his dry, too tight throat.

"Take it easy, Thomas. Just relax."

He let the silence grow; it was comfortable and the tension from the flash of pain dropping back into the dull feeling of painkillers doing their job. He managed to get his eyes to focus, glad to see Higgins' face, even though she looked tired. He blinked slowly at her, asking the silent question, "What happened?"

"You're okay. You got stabbed… you pushed me out of the way." 

She dropped her eyes, and Magnum suddenly realized why Rick and T.C. weren't in the room. They would have seen Higgins wrestling with her guilt, stepped aside so she could be the one to see him wake up so she could deal with it. He felt a rush of warmth at the compassion of his brothers, the concern of his sister.

"You?" It was all he could manage, but he needed to know he had done it, protected her, stopped her from getting hurt.

"A few bumps and bruises," and her tone told him she was lying. 

But she was wearing her own clothes, no hospital band on her wrist, so he was willing to believe there was nothing serious she was keeping from him. Although he kept seeing the image of her pale face, eyes dull with the loss of her spark. His mind tried to slowly sort through the images it was clinging on to. 

She must have noticed his brow furrowing; she touched his cheek to get his attention. "Your doctor told us you were dreaming. You kept half waking up and your heart rate spiking; they had to keep adjusting your meds."

That explained the constant stinging in his hand that he remembered, he thought to himself, the IV needle. Sure enough, he dropped his eyes and saw the telltale plastic tube. The gentle pressure on his hand shifted, repeated the movement, and he realized Higgins was stroking her fingers along his skin.

He lifted his eyes again, seeing the tiniest of smiles on her face, one that told him she was upset.

"You scared me this time."

"Sorry." Talking still hurt, but he felt the need to apologize. Even if he had saved her life, she'd been scared. That demanded a sorry at the very least; Higgins didn't do scared.

"Hurry up and get better, and we'll call it quits," she offered, the smile getting bigger and becoming lighter.

He managed to drum up a small smile of his own, hoping it looked bigger than it felt. "Deal," he whispered, as his eyes slid closed again and he slipped into a dream where his ohana was arguing about whether getting stabbed was worse than getting shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Tommy. At least he got to save his Higgy, that'll make him happy.


End file.
